I ran through the cemetery at 2am the other night, with a misfit group of gents. One gloriously reliving his adolescents, telling me we should act like kids and marvel at the quiet dark, at sneaking into the place where our dead rest. We held hands and walked in step with each other.
One had kept sneaking glances to my lips throughout the night, I had painted them a deep red, and let them stain glasses that were sweating in the crowded bar. He revealed later that those kisses we shared 3 years ago probably weren’t enough.
One other neither friend nor foe, but a rag tag-a-long with a bad history and a questionable accent. He kept trying to rest his hand on my leg while talking, until my direct refusal and later beratement did the trick. More like an icy glare, and a calling out. I will hold you accountable and refuse openly the liberties you believe you can take with me. No.
I looked up at the moon, big and lush against the dark dark sky. I talked in rhymes and rhythms. Then I declared I wanted to go to the train station, and then walk the abandoned tracks down towards the park.
The night ended falling asleep after laughter, and a wild jaunt around town. With the one I know the best crashing at my place, laughing at my cat, and sharing photos, new memories, old lovers and crushes. An understanding that comes from camaraderie, shedding our sexes to be companionably.
It feels nice to have friends who are a truly that, friends.
From my journal, July 2014